


Listen to the Nonbeliever

by hachiko



Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Car Sex, M/M, NBA Playoffs 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-28 23:39:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3874228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hachiko/pseuds/hachiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>game one of the ugliest first-round series in the playoffs, and he already has you right where he wanted you</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listen to the Nonbeliever

**Author's Note:**

> hella gay and sans-spurclejerk, too embarrassed to post this on my real account lmao. on top of this being really really really badly justified, somebody needs to tell me how to live my life

It wasn't warm in Los Angeles the first night they played in Staples Center, which Kawhi decided had to be a bad sign on top of an already inauspicious prelude to the playoffs. Not to the extent that it was fatedly distrastrous, but enough for some kind of pre-emptive prickle to settle under his fingertips when he left the hotel room that morning for shootaround. As a rule he wasn't the type to be bit by the first-round nerves, but like most professional athletes Kawhi took to personal superstitions seriously. Sometimes to the point where it hurt.

Sometimes to the point where it bent his reality.

The tenacity burnt into Barnes' eyes, fielded when he was guarding Kawhi throughout the messy first-half of the game, sealed this sentiment. Once in the low post when Kawhi was driving to feed the ball back to Manu, lasting just long enough for CP3 to dig his toes into the hardwood for a successful steal. Again when Kawhi bricked his shot at the line and subsequently felt a little bit of his intensity crumble off his shoulders. One last time when he propelled himself back-first into Barnes for a hard screen, turning his head around just in time to catch two words pressed into his left earlobe, muttered low and Lance-Stephenson-style with the intent to drive your opponent into the last corner of his mind that he wanted to succumb to—“ _Get fucked_.”

Which should not have affected him at all, Kawhi thought, massaging his face with his fingertips in the post-game locker room, but here he was now, anyway. Here they both were, Barnes goading him again and Kawhi scraping at a peeling label two months too late, surrendering to something that made him into a shell of the young man who had stood on the podium in 2014 to receive the finals MVP award.

Popovich took his sweet time in the locker room to chastise his team. It was still early on in the series, so his arsenal of insults remained reasonably restless—they weren't playing like a championship team despite being the goddamn championship team, defense in the first quarter with a 30-point-sized hole in it, sloppy shooting, sloppy free throws, _do any of you even want to win a_ _game here_ being the unspoken message. It was Pop's way of telling them all to brace themselves for a comeback in game two and Kawhi understood that, just like anybody else perched there on the bench with a towel hanging over his face. You take those words to heart and you break them into little pieces and stick them on a recording to play back in your mind, all the way through the ride back to the hotel. And then you condition your emotions in the same way you conditioned your body throughout the regular season. _P_ _lay through it,_ _aim higher next game._ He was a San Antonio Spur for that specific reason.

Scratching his left earlobe again after the buzz of beat reporters filtered out of the corridor, Kawhi grabbed a hoodie from his duffel, tucked his phone into his pocket and crossed over to the lobby doors for a breath of air.

The temperature in the VIP parking lot linked to Staples remained bitter to touch, temporally reminiscent of how unnaturally cold it had felt for April when they'd first landed in LA, and Kawhi tucked his head into his hood. Above the fluorescents in the lot, he imagined the miles of automobiles crawling at standstill pace in the street, southern California heat and home team adrenaline pressurized under a million watts of restaurants and night club music and eight-story billboards of Blake Griffin flushing a basketball down into the foot traffic of the plaza below.

Kawhi didn't like to overthink shit. If they won, he probably helped out. If they lost, he helped out with that too. The cards played out differently every game, only a player's drive to get up early and hit the gym for practice was constant. And every single person went out on the court for different reasons. Some guys liked playing for the win, some guys liked playing through the pain, some guys just liked to foul extra hard. While whispering highly-antagonistic, utterly-unsolicited _profanity_ into your ear.

The chevy honked at him, off to the side obscured from view by a large parking lot pillar. The noise roused the attention of one or two strangers carrying media gear across the other end of the commercial lot from Kawhi.

“They'll recognize you in four seconds,” Matt called out to him from the rolled-down window.

 _What the hell_ , Kawhi's heart started to pound. “What the hell.”

From the driver's seat, Matt only grinned. “Get in the back, punk.” He honked again.

The people walking in front of him were beginning to turn their heads. Kawhi jogged a short distance back and opened the back door on the passenger side.

Matt drove a dad car, mid-range SUV with a small chip in the silver paint on one of the front doors. The interior smelled and looked uncharacteristically clean, despite some kids' sneakers and a half-dozen books and toys thrown into the front seat. It wasn't the type of car that young players like Kawhi wanted to be caught dead in. It was the type of car that most of Kawhi's teammates owned or drove on a regular basis, the latter probably being the basis of a good joke that people on the Internet liked to crack about the average age of Kawhi's team.

“Don't call me that,” said Kawhi, ducking his head to climb into Matt's car.

“What, cuz you're a shitty little kid?” Matt rolled his window up. It was getting dark outside and the atmosphere inside the car grew dark with it, stifling the dry emotions threatening to spill out from Kawhi's end of the windshield.

“...”

“Yeah, alright,” said Matt, and got out from the driver's side. Kawhi heard the car doors slam shut twice.

With the locks clicked on behind him, Matt didn't hesitate to lean over and yank Kawhi's face toward his with an inordinate amount of force, pausing for a millisecond to glance out the windshield before kissing Kawhi on the mouth. One quick dry press of the lips before he closed his eyes and pushed deeper into the kiss, sloppy and rough and teeth for days, but fucking good for what it was and apparently good enough that it kicked Kawhi's heartbeat up another notch.

Which was obviously the most messed up part about it all.

They made out like that for a bit, Matt with his hand on the back of Kawhi's head tugging and fingering at the ends of his rows, Kawhi leaning awkwardly into it and shifting his hands uncomfortably until he settled for letting them rest on one of the seatbelt holders.

They broke apart breathing heavily, Kawhi pulling back and fixing his gaze on a dent in the cement pillar outside hiding Matt's car from any direct beholders. He refused to wipe his mouth, because fuck trying to pretend at all that he hadn't just been kissed by Matt Barnes in the parking lot of the Staples Center. The most delicious tabloid material. Reporting live to you directly from the back seat of a goddamned dad car.

“You,” Matt breathed, “it was the first time I just did that to you, huh. As opposed to, before.”

The _before_ that he referred to was the stuff that Kawhi didn't like to think about. It made this too real, too confrontational, people should just abandon their _before_ s and focus on what was the _now_ and what would happen _after_. If you miss a jumpshot in the first posession, get the point back with the next one. If you lose the first game in a series, win the next one back. And if you sucked Matt Barnes' dick in the shower in San Antonio, you _don't_ let him fuck you into his hotel mattress three hours later.

And you certainly don't leave later to walk back into the condo that you share with your girlfriend, sit down for dinner in front of the TV, and tell yourself that nothing fucking at all happened.

It really wasn't warm in Los Angeles, maybe that was all.

Matt flicked him in the shoulder. “Sorry that you lost?”

“Whatever. We'll win the next.”

“You think so? I'll still be the one guarding you.”

“Dunno if that helps your team or wrecks them, old man.”

“Huh. Is that what you think will happen? Maybe it's just what you fucking want.”

His hand slid over the waistband of Kawhi's shorts, shoving it down to stretch the fabric over Kawhi's knees. Still half-hard from their earlier bout of kissing, Kawhi felt the other half of his arousal slide into a groove in his brain while Matt closed a wet mouth over his cock.

_Maybe_ this _is what you fucking want._

Kawhi allowed himself to fall back against the leather of the seat, the sore muscles in his back jarring against the ledge on the door. Maybe Matt's SUV was the largest-sized one in its class, but trying to cram two 6'7” basketball players into the backseat of any car probably yielded some kind of discomfort. Kawhi gritted his teeth.

Matt was down on his knees in front of the leather seat and sucking Kawhi off in earnest now, a smear of precum and saliva rimming the edge of his lips. Kawhi couldn't see him all that proper in the dark, just the profile outline of Matt's hair and buzzed sideburns, his cheeks hollowed out and jaw weighed down by the length of Kawhi's cock. Bobbing up and down, a slight jab from the short hairs on his chin tickling Kawhi's balls each time he braced against Kawhi's legs to take more of Kawhi's dick into his mouth, and _fuck_. Two months since the last time they did this.

 _Two fucking months_ , and even now he still didn't want to even think about how much he missed it.

Grabbing Matt by the back of his head, Kawhi forced Matt deeper down over his knees until he felt the tip of his cock hit a dry spot in Matt's throat, choking him, the sound making Kawhi even harder. He let one thumb brush against Matt's lower jaw, wedging it between Matt's lips along with his cock to make Matt open his mouth wider.

Matt grunted, gagging until Kawhi released his grip. He squeezed Kawhi's balls with one hand and let his tongue lap up the side of Kawhi's cock as he lifted his head up to look at Kawhi in the face, glaring, taking a moment to suck the tip of Kawhi's cock before taking him back in his mouth. His movements were slower this time, more controlled and dictated now by the direction of Kawhi's fingers rubbing circles into the back of his neck, speeding up his motions when he finally felt the muscles in Kawhi's thighs contract from that familiar, guilty ache.

“Yeah,” Kawhi groaned. He came inside Matt's mouth.

And Matt was the one who didn't try to meet his eyes this time, when Kawhi retied his shorts and wiped the sweat in his palms off against the upholstery. “...Shit. I wanted to fuck you so bad in the game. Just today.”

Kawhi licked his lips. “You did. We got fucked pretty hard.”

“...”

Matt laughed. His voice was hoarse. “You know what I fucking meant. Now get outta my car, punk.”

Kawhi shrugged.

“Don't call me that,” he mumbled, as the door of Barnes' stupid dad car slammed shut in his face.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  [yep it's a chevy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8_-f7-Q2l88)   
> 


End file.
